


The power of illusion

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre series, Rain, and umbrellas, another step in their intricate courtship, hand holding, with an aid of tricks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 05:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14325927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “Not an admirer of magic tricks, Doctor Du Maurier?” the familiar voice sounds behind her and the corner of her tight lips curves a little. Hannibal Lecter has appeared so suddenly and silently, he could give the performer a run for his money.





	The power of illusion

The change of seasons is announced not by the buds of flowers, ready to bloom in her garden, but by a larger than usual stack of envelopes. Bedelia puts down her half empty cup of coffee and begins to scrutinise this morning’s post. The expected circulars are now interspersed with several invitations to talks and conferences. The psychiatric society has awakened from its hibernation and is eager to present the labour of the long winter months. Not very stimulating months, Bedelia has gathered, skimming through the topics and names. She finds nothing that would engage her, no surprise really, and puts the letters to the side, taking another sip of her coffee before it gets too cold.

She saves the social invitations for last. Setting down her now empty cup with a resounding clink, she looks at the unopened envelopes, easily recognised by an elaborate use of cursive, and fights an urge to toss them aside as well. But to keep the gossip at the minimum, she keeps the minimum of appearances, attending one or two galas a year. Preferably the least tedious ones, but sadly that is never an option. So instead she settles for the ones that are likely to finish early.

Her letter opener slices through the thick, engraved paper with skilled ease, as she barely registers most of the times, venues, and charities. The hand pauses as she reaches a red coloured envelope with an ostentatious cartoonish font. Even without looking inside, she knows who it is from; a yearly gala hosted by Celine Reilly, a wealthy widow of a once prominent surgeon, a social spectacle poorly concealed as an appeal for funds. The last year’s fountain of champagne seemed hardly appropriate for a liver transplant foundation’s fundraiser. Bedelia tries to presume this year’s charity by the peculiar choice of stationery; a fund for a new intensive care unit at the children’s hospital, it reads on the card inside. She can only imagine the _theme_ of that party. Still, the previous events were rather short and that suits her requirements. With a certain hesitation, she marks the “will attend” box. She suspects this evening might be more challenging than the former ones.

The invitation called for brightly coloured attires, but Bedelia chooses a navy gown, delicate silk whispering softy around her figure. The teardrop diamonds in her ears catch the light of the evening sun as the car moves smoothly through the streets of the city. She adjusts the golden curls cascading gently over her shoulders as the driver pulls to a stop.

The door soon opens, and she steps out of a car with her clutch in one hand and an umbrella in the other. Her fingers wrap tightly around its handle, her free pass for an early departure. As Celine insists that the galas take place in her spacious garden, the capricious April weather always disrupts them. She reaches the main door, thin heels clinking sharply against the white marble, and it opens at once, a waiter in a red jacket inviting her inside and taking her wrap in a well-rehearsed routine. Bedelia places her umbrella in the stand by the door, empty apart from one other, long black shaft, folded neatly and standing quietly. It seems only one other person took the same precautions as her.

She smiles to herself as she is guided to the back of the house, the evening proceeding as expected, but the smile fades at once when she steps though the panelled glass door. A large pavilion envelops the entire space of the garden, red and yellow panels shining brightly against the freshly bloomed foliage.

Suddenly, Bedelia feels as though she has stepped not through a glass door, but a looking glass. She walks towards the entrance, two strips of red bundled to the side like a curtain revealing the main stage of a theatre and steps into the warm, orange light. She slowly makes her way through the pavilion, her senses overwhelmed by the surge of hues and sounds. The guests seemed to have responded to the dress code with gusto and colours swirl before Bedelia’s eyes, green melting into blues, violets fading into pink. The waiters wear matching red jackets with mismatched ties and the tables dotting the space are topped with elaborate flower arrangements with the brightest of blooms. Bedelia scowls at the scene; she is surprised there are no balloons floating around. But now the rainbow of shades is drowned in a stream of vivid yellow as the hostess approaches Bedelia with a delighted smile and a crushing embrace.

“Doctor Du Maurier, so happy to see you,” she exclaims before letting Bedelia out of her clasp, “It is always such a pleasure to have you here,” she continues in the same excited tone, but her eyes silently study Bedelia’s sombre attire. Bedelia feels as if she were being judged by a giant bird.

“Please mingle and _enjoy_ ,” she winks and squeezes Bedelia’s arm before leaving to attend to other guests.

Bedelia wonders what she meant, and her question is answered soon enough. As she moves towards the centre of the garden, it is evident that the overbearing décor is not the only indication of tonight’s confusing concept. There is also _entertainment_. The usual string quarter is absent, and instead, to her dismay, she notices a juggler in a corner, keeping several balls in the air and trying to attract the curiosity of the patrons. But that appears to be focused on the other side of the garden. Bedelia approaches the cluster of people encircling a man in a suit and hat. The black of his outfit contrasts not only with the palette of shades around him, but also with his excessive gestures. His arms swing open in a theatrical way, presenting the empty palms. An illusionist preparing for his next trick.

The young man notices Bedelia and turns in her direction, eager to impress the newest member of his audience. He folds his hands and produces a rose as though out of thin air, then it disappears by a flick of his fingers. The gathered guests gasp in amusement, but Bedelia does not appear affected. The man’s face falls slightly, clearly disappointed he did not manage to capture her attention, but it is a mere second defeat, before he steps back to face the more impressionable patrons.

“Not an admirer of magic tricks, Doctor Du Maurier?” the familiar voice sounds behind her and the corner of her tight lips curves a little. Hannibal Lecter has appeared so suddenly and silently, he could give the performer a run for his money.

“No, I am not,” she turns to stand face to face with her patient. Behind her the illusionist ends his act to a round of grand applause. She observes as the man leaves his spot, followed by a newly formed group of fans, consisting mainly of the hospital chairmen’s wives. She suspects their admiration is centred around his young looks, rather than his skills.

“I am certain it takes a lot more to impress you,” Hannibal responds, and her eyes focus on him. She is not surprised by his presence; he is known to be the star of most social events and she is somehow pleased to see him here, an interesting spark in an otherwise dull evening.

Now he beams at her, delighted with the chance to compliment her, while Bedelia says nothing, quietly appraising his outfit; he wears a blue suit with a polka dot bow tie, rather subdued compared to the attires she has witnessed so far. Her gaze lingers on the bow tie; it feels like he only allowed the tiniest of threads of his person suit to loosen. She ponders what would emerge if the stitching came apart further and is overcome by a sudden need to strip him down, strand by strand, until there is nothing left but shreds of fibre.

Hannibal stands silently, allowing her to survey him without protest. She wonders what else he would allow her to do.

“I heard there is a fortune teller inside if that is something that might interest you more,” he finally breaks the silence, once she had her fill of him, and Bedelia’s eyes snap back at his, annoyed by this ludicrous suggestion.

But she is met with a twinkling stare and a cheeky grin. The attempt of a joke takes her by surprise but also lessens her nuisance with the event in some way. She rewards him with a half-smile.

“Can I get you a drink, Doctor?” Hannibal asks at once, feeling encouraged by her reaction.

“As long as you don’t conjure it from your sleeve,” Bedelia responds and this time Hannibal stares at her, startled, before smiling broadly.

They turn their attention to the passing waiters and balancing trays, but, sadly, the drinks are in-keeping with the general theme. Bedelia spots a variety of oddly shaped and coloured glasses and is reluctant to risk trying any of the concoctions they contain.

“Here,” Hannibal picks up two glasses in one graceful motion and offers her one, “please, try this.”

Bedelia eyes the flute filled with ruby liquid with obvious reserve. But she accepts the glass nonetheless, inclining her head in gratitude and the scent of sweet fruits pervades the air around her. She takes a cautious sip, hoping she will not shrink. The taste of berries and grapes lingers of her tongue. Sweet but heady at the same time.

“Hmm,” she hums in appreciation, “thank you,” she nods her head again and Hannibal smiles, happy to have pleased her. He takes a mouthful of his own drink and they slowly make their way to the back of the pavilion in amicable silence.

“Why do you pass such harsh judgement on illusions, Doctor?” Hannibal speaks first, returning to the topic that has started their conversation.

“They are nothing more than cheap deceptions,” Bedelia states firmly, savouring the sweet liquor, “And there is no knowledge to be gained from the reveal.”

“Not everything needs to be explained,” Hannibal finishes his own drink, “Some things can be enjoyed just for their beauty.”

Bedelia lets him relieve her of the empty glass and he sets them both on a small table. They reach the end of the pavilion, with tree branches peeking through the openings in the canvas.

“Like flowers, for example,” Hannibal continues, reaching his arm out to pluck a tiny branch, heavy with white blossoms.

“Most plants bloom to perpetuate themselves. It is their way of attracting pollinators,” Bedelia recites the book definition from her college years. She did not enjoy studying flora and was eager to proceed to more complex life forms. As she watches Hannibal smelling the flowers with a child-like delight, she thinks she has finally encountered the most complex one of all.

“It does not diminish their beauty,” he extends the flower towards her and she can see a sudden twitch in his fingers as his eyes dart towards her hair. For a moment, Bedelia thinks he means to pin the blossom in her strands, but he does not act on these thoughts, merely waiting for her to take the stem from his outstretched hand.

She swirls the floret between her fingers, noticing its smooth petals, gently ruffled at the edges, undecided what to make of his comments.

But Hannibal’s attention has already shifted. Bedelia looks up to find her patient observing her intensely, the flowers now forgotten. The urge to uncover the stitching pattern of his thoughts returns with fresh force, but his gaze makes her feel as if she were being exposed instead. A sudden flush of heat rises under her skin; the drink must have been stronger than she thought.

She moves to the nearby table and Hannibal wastes no time in pulling a chair out for her, then taking the other seat. The centre of the garden fills with sudden commotion and they both turn to see its source.

“The power of illusion attracts a certain type of people,” she places the flower on the table, now watching as the magician returns to the pavilion and the patrons gather around him. The previous group of women has been reinforced in numbers and fortified by fresh drinks.

“They search for a fast working remedy to the ailments of their reality,” Bedelia concludes watching their enraptured faces, “such fragile panacea.”

“Do you suggest not engaging in such distractions?” Hannibal looks at her now, having already lost interest in the spectacle taking place.

“No, there is no harm in them, in moderation, of course,” Bedelia continues, meeting his eyes which shine brightly with interest, “But I personally prefer to rely on more concrete facts, ones that can be checked and managed, not feeble sentiments.”

She prefers to rely on _herself_ , it’s what she means, even if the words remain unspoken. But Hannibal’s eyes tell her he has understood her all too well.

“Not all sensations are fleeting,” Hannibal speaks and his eyes dart to the side before returning to rest on hers. She can see he considers imparting more but doesn’t.

Loud silence descends between them, the noise of the party suddenly augmented. Bedelia glimpses at the other guests without much regard and wishes she still had the glass to occupy herself with.

“We cannot control everything,” Hannibal’s comment drowns the babble of voices afresh, “It is futile to deny ourselves what we want out of fear of breaking things. They can break no matter what we do.”

Bedelia holds his gaze at once, her own eyes stern and glaring. The notion of pots and kettles flashes through her mind.

“Yet you exert so much control over every aspect of your life,” she says firmly, wondering at which moment their casual conversation turned into another hour of therapy.

“Yes, I do, however-” he admits unexpectedly and Bedelia’s eyebrow arches in anticipation, “I also believe such constrains are meant to be broken. Given the opportunity.”

He looks at her as though waiting for her to respond, but Bedelia is lost for words. She has anticipated a confession, but this sounded more like a _proposition_. What kind of proposition, she does not know. Not yet. The protective bounds of her carefully executed control become dangerously loose as her mind slips towards unknown territories.

“We cannot say what the future will bring,” he adds nonchalantly in an attempt to lessen the mounting tension. His hand reaches for the centrepiece and only now Bedelia notices that the flowers are interspersed with playing cards. Hannibal’s fingers hover over the composition as he decides which one to pick, as if he were performing a trick of his own.

“I do not think those are the cards meant for fortune reading,” Bedelia states curtly, unsure what he is attempting to do.

“And I thought you didn’t believe in such things,” Hannibal teases her with a roguish grin, yet before she retorts, he draws a random card and places it on the table. The Queen of Hearts.

Hannibal smiles at the fortuitous coincidence but does not get the chance to comment as he is interrupted by a man appearing over his shoulder.

“Doctor Lecter, have you been hiding?” the man exclaims, the colour of his cheeks matching the purple of his suit, “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

“Doctor Morris,” Hannibal’s voice grows cold at once, the warm playfulness replaced by an annoyance with the rude disturbance, “This is Doctor Du Maurier.” His manners taking charge, he makes the customary introductions, but Bedelia can tell he does not wish to.

“Ah, the _famous_ Doctor Du Maurier,” the man calls out in the same booming voice, “Doctor Lecter has been signing your praises on numerous occasions. I think you are the main reason we have lost him to psychiatry.”

Bedelia stares at the beaming gentleman, undecided how to react to this new information. Her eyes glance at Hannibal, searching for an explanation.

“Doctor Morris is a surgeon. We used to work together,” Hannibal offers a clarification, but not the one she was looking for.

“Hannibal was our best man in the emergency department,” Doctor Morris concurs, “A terrible loss for all of us.”

The complement hangs in the air, but Hannibal merely nods. Bedelia is certain the man cannot see the cold steel flashing in his stare, but it does not escape her attention.

“Would you allow me to steal him for a few moments?” Doctor Morris continues when neither of them speaks, “I am sure a few colleagues would love to catch up with him.”

He places his hand on Hannibal’s arm and Bedelia’s eyes narrow, noticing a brief speck of scarlet colouring the chilly brown. Hannibal’s mouth quivers to make excuses, but Bedelia speaks first.

“Of course,” she says politely, and Hannibal’s eyes dim, turning sorrowful at once, as the man pulls him away.

Bedelia averts her gaze, looking at the flowers, avoiding silent apologies which no doubt form on her patient’s lips. The two men are gone, but her eyes remain focus on the table, the single card glaring at her, her mind still in discomposure. She should fear the way Hannibal renders her boundaries obsolete, pulling her to places she has never dared to venture. But the only thing that scares her is how much she relishes that feeling.

The blank stare of the painted woman irritates her for no reason and she pulls a random card from the centrepiece to cover the illustration. She tosses it on the table, but it slides over the other card, landing next to it. The King of Hearts. Bedelia stares at the two cards and the single flower blossom between them; like an intricate set piece of unknown symbolism.

_This is ridiculous._ She chastises herself for entertaining such nonsense in a first place. Her mind has travelled too far, it must be the influence of this absurd event.

Her thoughts are disrupted by a soft, tapping sound, one that becomes increasingly insistent. The clouds have broken at last and the rain begins to descend upon the garden, drops thumping against the canvas, while the guests remain undisturbed under the cover of the pavilion. The cloudburst brings Bedelia back to the present moment; she pulls her thoughts away forcibly, restoring the safe bounds of her mind.

The change of weather is not noticed; continuous chatter, interspersed with laughter and clinking of glass spreads throughout the garden. The evening has barely begun, but Bedelia decides to call it a night. She has had her fill of _entertainment_. She finds the hostess and bids her goodbye, ignoring the disappointing stare and words pleading her to stay. Crossing the glass door again, she walks briskly down the empty hallway, her heels echoing with quiet resolve. She retrieves her wrap from the silent attendant and takes her umbrella from the stand. She does not wait for the man to open the door, but reaches for the doorknob herself, pulling it open in tandem with the umbrella.

The rainfall has started in earnest; the sky turns cobalt grey and the crisp foliage now appears dull and defeated under the heavy curtain of water. The drops splash vigorously on the ground as Bedelia steps cautiously, mindful of her stilettos and the now slippery footpath.

She stops at the end of the walkway and attempts to retrieve the phone from her purse, annoyed at herself for not calling the car from the house. The tail of her dress becomes heavy as it soaks up the gathering water and she tries to balance the umbrella on her shoulder. Her evening could not end any worse.

“I believe you have my umbrella, Doctor Du Maurier.”

Bedelia turns abruptly, almost dropping her clutch. Hannibal Lecter stands in front of her, a folded umbrella in his hand, oblivious to the outpouring, increasing by a minute. His appearance remains impeccable despite the drops steadily falling on his face.

She blinks, still stunned; she does not know how he followed her so quickly. Or how she managed to take the wrong umbrella. She opens her mouth, ready to apologise when a clear memory of picking the one standing on the left flashes in her mind. That was the spot she placed hers in. The supposition washes over her like a cold shower of the incessant rain.

“An admirable sleight of a hand, Hannibal,” she looks at her patient with an amused expression. It must not have been hard to distract the coat attendant; there were nothing more than umbrellas after all. Bedelia suspects he will deny the accusation, but he merely smiles.

“The illusionist never reveals his tricks,” he takes a step closer and Bedelia supresses a chuckle.

She extends her arm, expecting him to take the umbrella from her hand, but instead he moves closer still, until they are both standing under the cover with mere inches between them. Bedelia is taken by surprise but remains still. Despite the wet fabric and the chilly air, she senses warmth radiating from his body and wonders why she hasn’t discerned it before. It is so intense, so _inviting_ ; she wishes she could envelop herself in the radiance. All the more reason to return home at once, the sudden drop of temperature has made her feel shivery and it plays obvious tricks on her mind.

She is about to make her excuses when Hannibal reaches him hand out and touches hers, wrapped around the handle. It is the first time he has touched her all evening. The sensation of his bare skin against hers is unforeseen and it sends an immediate charge through her nerves. His fingers encase hers slowly and the feeling rushing over her skin is fervent and intimate, beginning where their hands meet, but spreading beyond that. Bedelia no longer feels the cold.

“Can I escort you home, Doctor?” Hannibal asks, and she suddenly comes back to her senses, remembering where they are.

“You are missing the party, Hannibal,” she responds with her usual caution, carefully shutting herself within the guarded limits set in her mind.

“It is not a very engaging event, you must agree,” he states, inclining his head ever so slightly, “and the only interesting person has left quite unexpectedly.” He finishes with a knowing grin.

Bedelia’s lips twitch as well, but she does not let her amusement show. The sense of her usual firm control slipping returns as the safety net of her boundaries now vanishes anew.

“I merely want to ensure you arrive home safe,” Hannibal explains, noticing her internal turmoil. His eyes peer into hers, bright and sincere. Their hands are still touching, eyes remain locked.

“I have a car waiting. The streets can be quite perilous in this weather,” he adds and Bedelia realises that they are in fact still standing in the middle of a downpour.

Bedelia finds herself perching on the verge of an unknown ledge, not sure if she should take the step forward. Her head tilts as she considers the man standing in front of her. _Some constrains are meant to be broken._

“Yes,” she takes the leap before her mind withdraws back into the comfort of rules.

The now familiar smile emerges on Hannibal’s lips, so boyish in its hopeful nature, and he takes the umbrella from her grip at last, fingers softly grazing hers in one final touch. He returns the other one to her and Bedelia is ready to unfold it when his arm hooks in an inviting gesture.

There is only a flicker of hesitation before her hand slips around his arm. Immediately, he pulls her closer to him, gently but surely, ensuring she is fully under the cover of the canopy. Without a word, they begin to walk slowly towards the parking.

Bedelia thinks about his arm holding her so firmly. She has never anticipated his touch could feel so _safe_. She continues to descend into the unknown, but she no longer feels like she is falling alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the gala elements and the umbrellas were loosely inspired by "The Night Circus", although the switch was incidental in the book. Following Bedelia's lead, do not read too much into the cards pulled, there are a lot of meanings assigned to them, but I went with the obvious heart-related. Although, I did find a random site saying the Queen of Hearts means maturity & love, and King- maturity & loyalty, which is very fitting here.  
> I love all aspects of their relationship and their elaborate courtship, in all the different settings. As always, I try not to repeat myself, and hope all stories bring something new, even a tiny bit. Feedback is love!


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